Pride of Lions
by aldalindil
Summary: Alastor Moody has just lost his leg, his eye, and half his face. He's not the only one who has been scarred by the experience, however. There is another who has yet to come to terms with Alastor's loss: his dearest friend, Minerva McGonagall.


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Disclaimer: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Minerva McGonagall, Alastor Moody, and all related characters, ideas, and materials belong to J.K. Rowling, not me.

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Author's Notes: This story is connected—if loosely—to my fanfic "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald." It's the third in a planned series of related stories in what I think of as a "fic web" or story arc. They will all be connected in some way, but won't necessarily all be set in the same universe, and won't all be sequels or prequels of one another, if that makes sense. As more stories are posted, I'll put a timeline on my author profile showing which fics follow one another.

"Pride of Lions" is intended as a true sequel to "WoC,CoE." The events in this story do indeed occur years after the flashback. That said, you needn't read "Warmth of Crimson, Chill of Emerald" before you read this fic, as it can stand alone. "Pride of Lions" is also intended as a prequel to "A Chill Rain." Whether the events in "Pride of Lions" happen a few years after those in "The Emerald Mark" and draw upon Minerva's history in that fic is open to your own interpretation. 

I hope you enjoy reading. If you do—or even if you don't—feedback is more than welcome.

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Pride of Lions

* * *

She cursed herself with every step she took. Every single step, because the sound of her shoes hitting the floor cut like a blade through her heart. Minerva cursed herself in time with the strides of her strong, perfect legs, because each step she took was one he couldn't. And it _hurt_.

It still hurt now as badly as it had nearly two months ago, when Albus had woken her in the middle of the night and asked her to come with him to St. Mungo's immediately. He'd told her what had happened briefly, as they prepared to toss their Floo powder into her fireplace. 

She couldn't believe it, then. Not Alastor. Minerva had always known the dangers her friend faced, of course, but she had never thought anything serious would happen. Not something like that. Not to him.

It had abruptly become real, however, when she and Albus had hurried to the emergency-treatment room and glimpsed him through the glass walls. Alastor's stretcher had been levitated onto a table, and Minerva had nearly fainted at the sight. There had been blood everywhere. So much blood. Dried blood, slowly turning into a rust-coloured crust on his skin. Blackened blood, mixed with the burn-marks of curses. So much wet, crimson blood flowing from what had been the right side of his face and was recognisable as a face no longer. And, worst of all: red, red blood soaking the sheets in the place where most of his right leg used to be.

It had been real then, though Minerva walked through that day, and most subsequent days, as if she were in a dream. Thankfully, it had happened at the beginning of the summer holidays, so she didn't have classes and students and marking and meetings distracting her from more important matters. And so she had established a routine. 

Minerva woke at precisely eight o'clock each morning, bathed, dressed, and went to Saint Mungo's to sit at his bedside. She ate lunch in the hospital's cafeteria and left each evening at half-past six. She then went home, ate dinner, read a book, and went to bed at midnight. The routine was altered on Sundays in order for her to go to mass. On Sundays, she didn't come to his room until noon.

At first, she had simply sat beside Alastor as he slept. For nearly a month, he'd been given so many sleeping draughts, healing elixirs, and anaesthetic potions that he slept almost constantly, and when he'd been awake, he'd been senseless. When he had been conscious, he'd cried out and wept and railed at Death Eaters who weren't there. 

After that, when he'd been mostly healed in body, if not in spirit, Alastor and Minerva had simply talked. They'd reminisced about their days at school, discussed love and life and current events in the wizarding world, but rarely did they mention his loss, and never his future. At last, when he was ready, Alastor told her what had happened.

He'd been sent on a mission to capture some Death Eaters—reported members of the Inner Cadre—on information supposedly supplied from within the Ministry itself. It had been a trap, designed to rid the world of one more Auror.

He had been tortured at first. The deep, deliberate gashes on his face and body had been inflicted with knives and severing spells, and a wandpoint had gouged out his right eye. Curses and hexes designed to kill him slowly had come next, though some of them had gone awry when a team of Aurors came to his rescue. 

After Alastor had left on the mission, someone at Auror's Headquarters had figured out that the tip hadn't come from the Ministry at all. Or at least, not from any _legitimate_ members of the Ministry. A team had been dispatched at once to rescue him, but they were too late. By the time they'd reached him, his leg and half of his face had already been blown off with curses. The Death Eaters Disapparated when the Aurors arrived, and so the team had rushed Alastor to Saint Mungo's.

Minerva had listened in silence when he told her, blinking back her tears so he wouldn't see how much his loss pained her. It hurt so badly, seeing him ruined, and for nothing! At least he'd lived, though Minerva knew well that was little comfort to him. He needed more than that, and she knew not how to give it. All she could do was come and be with him, every day without fail, and hope that would be enough.

And so it was at half-past eight in the morning that she arrived at the door to his private room. She didn't knock, not wanting to wake him if he was still asleep, but instead opened the door and quietly slipped in. A quick glance at the bed told her he _was_ asleep, so she went to sit at her customary post in the chair beside him.

Minerva had taken to leaving a pile of books on the bedside table, for herself as well as for Alastor, and she now picked one up and started idly paging through it. It was rubbish, really, the sort of silly novel Sibyll Trelawney and others like her enjoyed. This one, entitled _Desert Desire_, featured a beautiful blonde witch on the cover alternately protesting the advances of a tall, dark, and rather grotesquely muscled wizard and allowing him to rip open the top portion of her robes whilst she swooned dramatically. 

It really _was_ dreadful, Minerva thought as she read a particularly…interesting…passage, in which the heroine waxed poetic about the size and capabilities of the hero's wand. But then, both she and Alastor had enjoyed reading novels like it—if only to laugh at them--ever since they'd discovered one tucked into a hollowed-out copy of _Terrifically Treacherous and Terrifying Transfigurations_ their fourth year at Hogwarts. Minerva had brought most of her collection to the hospital in hopes of giving Alastor something to laugh about.

She glanced up at the bed sometime later, just as Marcellius began to tenderly minister to Constantina's cauldron, and found Alastor awake. He had turned his head on the pillow and was watching her fondly with one brown eye. The other was covered with a black patch, but Minerva knew there was no matching eye beneath, only scars and a ruined crater.

A smile curved her lips as she set the book aside, not bothering to mark her place. "Good morning."

"Min," he said softly, an answering smile causing the left side of his face to draw up awkwardly. His voice was hoarse, due to a spell that had constricted his throat and nearly strangled him, and the nerves on the right side of his face had been damaged beyond repair from the curses, leaving it mostly paralysed. Minerva's smile threatened to shake, looking at him. So little was left of the man she'd known.

Alastor began to pull himself up into a sitting position and, as always, Minerva half-rose to help. As always, he shook his head, causing shaggy grey hair to fall into his face. "I can manage," he rasped, leaning back against the pillows.

Minerva nodded as she resumed her seat. "I know."

He snorted, obviously amused. "Then stop trying to mollycoddle me, woman."

Her lips twitched. This exchange had become routine for them shortly after he'd regained his senses. Minerva viewed it as a sign he was feeling better, and was grateful. She wanted, of course, to tell him that she'd mollycoddle him all she liked, because she loved him and would do anything to assuage his pain. She had, however, neither the words to say it nor the knowledge of how to _do_ it. And so she simply arched an eyebrow and shrugged a thin shoulder.

"I won't, then," she replied, picking up _Desert Desires_ again. "Instead, I'll torture you by reading Marcellius and Constantina's sordid adventures aloud."

He chuckled. "Ah, but I've read them already. I'm particularly fond of the part where they're in the tent outside Cairo and he invites her to take a ride on his broomstick…"

Minerva snickered and set the book down. "It's terribly unrealistic. If he _did_ play Quidditch, he'd be a Beater," she said wickedly. "Certainly not a Chaser—he lacks the wits to get the Quaffle through the hoop."

Alastor laughed aloud at that, but then winced. "Stop, Min! That hurts."

"I'm sorry!" Her amusement faded instantly, replaced by remorse.

He chuckled again. "No, it was the puns that were painful."

She glared over her spectacles, though a smile tugged at her lips once more. Alastor sighed and sagged back against the pillows. "If only your students could hear you…" 

"Well, they can't, so it hardly matters." Minerva shrugged again, still amused. "Besides, they all _know_ about those things. I've caught plenty of them playing a bit of one-on-one Quidditch in empty classrooms, as well as polishing their broomsticks when they think no one is about."

Alastor snorted. "'Tis only natural. After all, Quidditch in the corridors—and flying solo—aren't exactly novel concepts. Lord knows we snogged at every opportunity, back in our day."

Minerva smiled wanly, suddenly thinking of whom, exactly, she'd snogged _with_. She caught Alastor's sudden worried glance and tried to force a more cheerful expression. After all, her relationship with Tom had simply been a mistake. An enormous mistake, of course, but it had ended decades ago. Alastor, on the other hand, was unable to see the woman he _still_ loved.

He cleared his throat. "Er, speaking of broomsticks, I have something like one. Want to see it?"

Minerva gaped at him, her thoughts still on snogging. "_What_?"

Alastor barked a laugh. "You've a filthy mind, Min."

"I can't help it. I never had proper friends as a child. Just a dirty-minded boy," she replied with a haughty sniff.

"And a fine job I did of corrupting you, too." He grinned, though Minerva knew the strange grimace would not be recognisable as a grin by anyone but herself.

She gave a curt nod, thinking that if anyone had truly corrupted her, it had been a different boy altogether.

With a grunt, Alastor leant over and retrieved something that had been propped against the other side of his bed.

"Anyway," he said, straightening, "I wasn't planning on giving you an eyeful. I just wanted to show you this." He held out the object in his hands for her inspection, and Minerva paled when she realised what it was.

A wooden leg. A length of polished, dark wood, rather thicker than a broomstick, complete with a clawed foot at the bottom and a leather cuff at the top. Minerva swallowed hard, staring at the all-too-real reminder of his injury, completely at a loss for words.

She looked up at Alastor's face helplessly, only to find him wearing an expression of humiliation and discomfort equal to her own. He blushed an alarming shade of red, set the leg down beside him on the mattress, and looked away before continuing. 

"The nurse brought it last night and showed me how to put it on and use it. I picked it out a week ago." He chuckled, though the sound was more embarrassed than amused. "There's a bigger selection of these things than you might think."

Minerva nodded. "It's…very nice," she managed, feeling faint.

"Well, I'm not sure I'd go _that_ far, given what it is." His tone was very dry. "But it suits its purpose."

She exhaled slowly through her nose, collecting herself, and then raised a challenging eyebrow behind her spectacles. "Oh, does it?"

Alastor's eye widened. "What, you want a demonstration?" His gruff voice was hoarser than usual, thick with hurt.

Minerva shook her head quickly, cursing herself for at least the thousandth time that day. "No, of course not! Nothing like that! I just…" 

__

Wanted to help. Wanted to do something—say something--to make it better. Was trying to make light of the fact that you'll be walking on a claw-footed broomstick for the rest of your life.

"…I just wondered if you'd like to go for a walk with me," she finished lamely, looking down at her lap. "It's been a long time."

He was silent for a moment, and Minerva busied herself with studying the plaid pattern of her skirt. She looked up, however, when he reached over and took her hand in his. Alastor met her gaze and squeezed her hand gently in acknowledgement of all the things she didn't say.

"Aye, it has been a long time. I think I would."

Minerva held his hand tightly, gathering her courage. She then rose and smiled down at him. "Well then, you'd best don your broomstick so we can be off."

Alastor stared, but then he laughed, sounding relieved. As he moved to put on his wooden leg, Minerva turned her back to the bed. She did so mostly out of a desire to give him privacy, but also—though guilt curdled her stomach even acknowledging it—because she couldn't bear to see. She heard him moving about behind her and then, abruptly, silence fell.

"Min?" he rasped at last, nearly inaudibly. "Would you please give me a hand?"

Minerva stiffened, but then turned, careful to look only at his face. Alastor had turned so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He was flushed with embarrassment and perhaps exertion, and she knew what it had cost him to ask. Arching an eyebrow again, she smiled and willed her voice not to shake as she replied. 

"A hand? Isn't it a leg you're in need of?"

He gaped again before his face twisted in a teasing smile. "Are you offering?"

Her smile faded as she crossed to the bed, still keeping her eyes trained on his face. "I would if I could." Her tone lightened as she continued. "Pity it wouldn't match, though."

"At this point, I'm not in a position to be choosy," Alastor chuckled. He gave her stocking-clad calves an appraising look. "But yours are far too nice to be wasted on the likes of me."

Minerva simply shook her head, but a pleased smile played about her lips. She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before speaking. "What would you like me to do?"

He flushed again. "Just hold it steady for me, and give me a shoulder to lean on?"

She nodded and pulled her chair closer to the bed before sitting. Alastor put the wooden leg into her outstretched hand, and she positioned it on the floor beside the bed, still careful not to let her gaze fall below his neck. 

Minerva turned her head away as Alastor put a hand on her shoulder. He leant heavily on it as he hauled himself to his foot, and then his grip shifted as he found his balance. She swallowed hard, gripping the wooden leg so tightly she almost feared to break it.

For a long moment, she waited for him to put what remained of his leg into the cuff, but he didn't. Silence fell again, and Minerva felt as though she were being transfigured into glass: brittle and thin and breakable.

Alastor squeezed her shoulder again, though not, she thought, out of need for support. "Actually, I need you to put it on for me, Min, if you would. My…aim…isn't as good as I thought." His tone was gentle, and oddly compassionate. "You can look; it won't make it less real if you don't." Almost desperately, he added, "You of all people can look."

Minerva blinked back tears that suddenly threatened to spill over. "I of all people _can't_," she whispered, feeling her defences collapsing. "It hurts too much. I _care_ too much."

His grip tightened again. "I know. That's _why_ I don't mind if you see it."

She nodded, inhaled sharply through her nose, and turned her head to look. Alastor was clad in a white nightshirt that fell nearly to his knees and, presumably, undergarments, so she didn't see the leg—stump—itself. Rather, she simply saw his torso, rendered shapeless by the shirt, and one pale, hairy leg extending from the bottom of it. 

Minerva looked closer and made out the outline of his right hip through the fabric, followed the line to approximately halfway down his thigh, where it abruptly…ended. She exhaled slowly. "I just…put it on?"

"Aye, if you would."

She nodded and quickly slipped the leg beneath his nightshirt with one hand, not giving herself time to think about what she was doing. She put her other hand to the side of his leg on the outside of the cloth and used it as a guide to fit the cuff onto his stump without actually _touching_ it much.

Though part of her knew he _wanted_ her to see, Minerva turned away again when he bent awkwardly to fasten the buckles to the leather garters—probably attached to some sort of belt—she'd felt whilst putting the leg on him. He worked slowly, but at last the leg was completely attached.

"One more thing," Alastor murmured as he straightened. "_Accio_ staff."

Minerva turned in time to see a long and knobbly wooden staff fly from its position propped against the wall into Alastor's outstretched left hand. When it did, he leant upon it and took a halting side-step away from Minerva, letting go of her shoulder. She smiled and stood, drawing her wand in a smooth movement.

Alastor shot her a puzzled look. "What are you doing?"

Wordlessly, she pointed her wand at his nightshirt and transfigured it to a comfortable set of lightweight robes. She took care, of course, to make certain the robes were loose enough to allow freedom of movement and yet short enough that he wouldn't trip on them. Alastor smiled as she tucked her wand back into her sleeve.

"Thank you." The quiet emphasis of the words told Minerva his thanks weren't merely for the change of clothing.

She jerked her head in a nod, but then smiled again. "Where would you like to go?"

"Anywhere but here." He took a step forward, wobbled, and caught himself. "Well, perhaps someplace _close_," he amended ruefully.

Minerva winced, recalling days when the two of them had roamed all over Hogwarts together. She cleared her throat before suggesting, "We could walk to the end of the hall…"

"Don't have much faith in me, do you?" His teasing tone belied his words as he took another halting, ungainly step. Minerva opened her mouth to protest, but then he laughed, looking down at his leg. "I think the end of the hall sounds like a fine goal."

She nodded absently, wondering if _she_ could last the journey. Just watching his agonising progress was almost enough to bring tears to her eyes. Instead of crying, though, she straightened her shoulders and moved to walk beside him.

Though she longed to offer him her arm, she could tell her movements would only upset his already-precarious balance. So she simply slowed her pace to match his and walked at his side, ready to offer support if he needed it.

They walked without speaking, due on Minerva's part to the fact that she dared not trust her voice, nor did she want to disturb his concentration. Alastor's progress was punctuated by the "clunk" of his wooden leg against the floor at every other step, as well as by occasional grunts when a step went awry. When they arrived at last at the small, windowed alcove at the end of the corridor, Minerva turned to him, beaming. Her smile faded at once, however, when he saw how grey and drawn his face was, filmed over by a sheen of perspiration.

"Do you need to sit down?" she asked quickly, gesturing to the lone bench in the corner.

He shook his head, gripping his staff with one hand and holding tightly to the windowsill with the other. "Too hard to get up again," he panted.

Minerva frowned, truly concerned now, and resisting a strong urge to bite her fingernails. "Is there anything I can do?"

"You can stop _worrying_ so much, woman!" He smiled triumphantly—if wearily—at her. "I did it, didn't I?"

Her answering smile shook at the corners. "You did, though it looks as though you half-killed yourself in the process." She raised an eyebrow at him. "And I can worry if I like. I _want_ to look after you. Constant vigilance!"

One brown eye fixed her with a baleful glare. "I didn't mean _that_ sort of vigilance."

"Too bad." She gave him a serene smile, pleased to note that his colour seemed to be returning.

He chuckled softly, turning to lean heavily on the windowsill. Minerva noticed that he'd shifted his weight almost entirely to his good leg, but forbore to ask again if there was anything she could do. Instead, she went to stand beside him at the window—on his left side, rather than his blind right one. One hand went to rest on the sill, but she put the other on his shoulder, pleased to be able to actually _stand_ next to her friend for the first time in months.

After a moment, Alastor sighed, shoulders slumping. 

"Is this how it's going to be, Min?" he whispered, still facing the window.

She turned, puzzled. "How _what_ is going to be?"

His shoulders rose and fell in a shrug beneath her hand. "This. Us. The 'constant vigilance.' Pretending everything's all right, but _knowing_ it's not."

Minerva opened her mouth but then closed it at once, completely at a loss. Alastor continued, however, still addressing the windowpane.

"I _need_ you, Min." His quiet tone was uncharacteristically earnest. "Being hurt was bad enough, and knowing that things will never be the same for me is worse, but I need to know if I'm still…"

"Still what?" she whispered when he fell silent.

Alastor turned and looked at her pleadingly. "Still…me. Still Alastor. Still a man."

Minerva's eyes widened behind her spectacles. "Of course you are!" She gripped his shoulder with most of her considerable strength. "Why would you think otherwise?"

He gave her a sad smile, reaching over to cover other her hand with his. "Because everything you feel is written on your face."

She shook her head, feeling a tell-tale blush creeping up her cheeks. "But you _are_! You're my friend." Her lips trembled, and she glared down at their hands, willing her tears away. "And I love you."

His hand tightened around hers. "Well, thank Merlin for that, at least."

"What do you mean?" Minerva looked up sharply, hearing the odd note in his voice. With a heavy sigh, Alastor took his hand from hers and looked away. 

"Do you think many women will still see me as a man, Minerva?"

She flinched at his use of her full name as much as at his words, but kept silent as he continued. 

"Not knowing what I once looked like, all anyone will see are the scars and the wooden leg and the patch over my eye—unless I get a magical one, though that's hardly better. Do you think anyone will look at me and not want to run away?" He sighed once more. "I'm never going to lie with a woman again. I just need to know that _you_, at least, still think of me as a person."

Minerva glared down at the windowsill again, unclenching her hand—which had slowly balled itself into a fist as he spoke—and looking at the deep half-moon gouges her fingernails had dug into her palm.

"Of course I do," she said at last, wondering in some secret, guilt-ridden corner of her mind how true the statement was. "And I'm sure Bella will," she added quietly. She felt terrible as soon as the words left her mouth and felt his shoulders stiffen at once.

"Bella…has nothing to do with this, at the moment," he rasped, sounding half-choked with pain.

Minerva nodded, cursing herself for her wayward tongue. She knew full well—had known for several years—that Alastor and Arabella effectively did not exist for one another whilst Arabella was in hiding. And they likely would not be able to see each other for years, or perhaps ever again. Their relationship had been put aside indefinitely, and it had been sheer foolishness to mention Arabella's name.

"I'm sorry," she whispered helplessly.

Alastor shrugged, dismissing it. "I know, Min. I know. But I can't spend my life wondering what she'll think; I'd go mad. I just…need to know I'm still whole." A lopsided grin twisted his face. "And right now, your opinion is the only one that matters. I need _something_ to be the same."

Minerva forced a smile, making a conscious effort to suppress the confusing tangle of emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. "Well, one thing is the same, at least."

"Oh?"

She looked up and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Indeed. I'm going to mollycoddle you no matter what. It's time to go back, I think."

He grimaced, muttering something about nagging women, and Minerva smiled.

"I'll nag all I like," she retorted, swatting his shoulder gently. "Besides, this is a conversation best continued in private, don't you think?"

Alastor chuckled as he gripped his staff again and turned. "Oh, aye. Now that I've already embarrassed myself, you want to go back."

"Naturally." She smirked but then added, "No one was here to hear us anyway."

He merely nodded, his mind obviously on more important matters, such as walking down the hallway without toppling over. Again, Minerva matched her pace to his halting progress, lending silent support and willing the return trip to be easier for him.

By the time they stepped into his room, she knew it hadn't been. Alastor's face was ashen and damp yet again when he limped to his bed, his breathing shallow and ragged. Minerva bit the inside of her lip as she closed the door and then went to him.

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Help me…sit down?" he rasped breathlessly.

Minerva nodded and offered an arm. Alastor took it and leant upon it heavily as he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, extending his wooden leg. She took the staff when he was seated, as Alastor swung his legs up onto the bed and then collapsed back onto the pillows with a sigh.

Minerva set the staff against the wall, frowning down at him in concern. "Do you need anything? Water? Tea?"

He shook his head, obviously trying to catch his breath. "I'm fine, Min," he said at last. Then he mock-glared. "Stop worrying!"

To her horror, tears filled her eyes yet again. "I can't _help_ it!" She her hands to her face as the tears spilled over, ashamed at her lack of self-control but unable to stop the torrent once it had begun. 

"I nearly lost you, Alastor! You're my dearest friend, and I _need_ you. I can't stand to see you like this. Not because I don't think you're whole—you're still the same Alastor to me--but because I can't _fix_ it!" Minerva exhaled shakily. "I want to make it better, and I can't," she continued in a whisper. "Can you blame me for wanting to help as much as possible?"

After a moment, she dared to look over at the bed and was startled to see that his cheek was wet, as well. "Don't you know you've done far too much as it is?" he asked in a hoarse whisper.

Minerva shook her head, wanting to sob with two month's worth of rage and pain, or to curl up against his broad chest and weep like a helpless, mewling kitten. She did neither of these, however, and simply stood at his bedside mutely, feeling guilt and denial clenching like a fist in her chest.

__

But I haven't! Not if you doubt. And I don't know how to fix it—

And then, suddenly, she knew. It wasn't, perhaps, the most creative solution. Nor would it be easy. But she knew, irrationally and without a doubt, it was the right thing to do.

Minerva took a deep breath, drew her wand, and transfigured Alastor's robes back to their original form. She then stepped closer to the bed and seated herself on it, near his hip. His eye widened in alarm when she reached down and grasped the hem of his night-shirt.

"Min?" He sounded more strangled than usual. "What--?"

She forbore to answer as she slowly pulled the fabric back, afraid her vaulted Gryffindor courage would fail her if she spoke. So she seemingly ignored him, looking down at his newly bared thighs.

It wasn't so bad, with the wooden leg attached. It was bad enough, to be certain, but most of the scarring Minerva knew was there was hidden by the leather cuff. All she could see were a few inches of pale, hairy thigh—she'd left his loins covered, of course—and brown leather garters along the sides and front of his leg that were buckled to the leather cuff into which his stump disappeared. It wasn't so bad, but it also wasn't enough.

Keeping her eyes on his stump in order to avoid looking at his face, Minerva reached for the buckles with trembling fingers.

Alastor inhaled with a hiss when she unfastened the front one. "Min--"

"Be. Quiet," she ordered through clenched teeth. She unfastened the second and third, and then slid her hand beneath his thigh in order to unfasten the last buckle. Sheer will alone kept her hands from shaking too violently to function as she grasped the cuff with one hand and the wooden leg with the other and carefully pulled it off.

She didn't—couldn't—look, at first. Instead, she averted her gaze and bent to set the leg on the floor. When she straightened, she looked up at Alastor's face. 

He was staring at her incredulously, his skin perilously close in hue to Gryffindor scarlet. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he finally rasped, "What are you _doing_?"

Before answering, she turned and looked down at his legs. Or, more properly, at his leg and his…part of a leg. It was as appalling as she had imagined it. Shiny pink scar tissue covered the bottom part of his stump; bumpy, angry-looking patches interspersed with spots unnaturally smooth, dead white. 

Minerva swallowed hard, tasting bile. It wasn't the wound itself that horrified her as much as the knowledge of the excruciating pain it must have caused. She looked at it for a long moment, feeling tears come again, but with them came understanding and a strange sort of calm. It had been a dreadful wound, certainly. And it was ugly, there was no denying that. But…it was only skin, after all, and at least he hadn't died from it.

She reached out with surprising steadiness and gently placed her hand on the end of the stump.

Alastor stiffened with a jerk. "Oh, gods!" he breathed. He sounded close to tears. "Min, _what_ are you _doing_?" he asked desperately, yet again.

Minerva looked up into his face, but did not move her hand. Alastor had gone an even deeper shade of red, nearly purple in fact, and he wore an expression of abject humiliation. Tears shone in his good eye, and she wept enough from both of hers to make up for his missing one. 

"You asked me if you were still whole to me," she said at last, as she took his hand with her free one. "I…wasn't sure a moment ago, but now I know. And you are." Her lips trembled, but curved into a smile. "How could I love you any less, just because there's a bit less of you to love?"

He nodded and inhaled raggedly, squeezing her hand so hard she almost feared he'd crush it. Before he had a chance to ask any more questions, Minerva leant down and placed her lips against his. 

Alastor opened his mouth—no doubt to ask her what she was doing yet _again_—but she took advantage of the situation and kissed him deeply. He was passive at first but then warmed to it, squeezing her hand as his tongue traced over hers.

It didn't feel like kissing a family member might, Minerva decided when she finally pulled away. Given that Alastor had been like a brother to her for over forty years, she had feared it would. But it also didn't feel like any other kisses she'd had in her life. There was no sense of desperation, no clenching in her belly or passion or light-headed giddiness or anything of the sort. Rather, it was just…comfortable. Warm and safe and entirely right, as if kissing Alastor were the most natural thing in the world.

Minerva smiled softly and lay down, curling her body up against his in such a way that would leave no doubts in his mind as to what she intended. He turned his head on the pillow and blinked at her, his face still flushed. 

"Are…are you sure?" he whispered.

Her smile widened. "Well, you said you'd never lie with a woman again," she said tartly, raising an eyebrow. "Proving you wrong is the least I can do."

Alastor chuckled and squeezed her hand again. "I'd be a fool to say no." He then sighed, suddenly looking grim. "I'm just not certain I _can_, Min."

"Because it's me?" 

He gave her a pointed look. 

"Oh." She hadn't thought of that at all, just of healing his ego, if she could. She bit the inside of her cheek before continuing. "Well, wouldn't it be better to find that out with me than with one of the women who will—I'm certain—someday be throwing themselves at your foot?"

He stared at her for a moment, but then he laughed loudly. 

"Well, when you find those women, will you please let me know?" he gasped between chuckles. A warm smile spread across his face when he sobered and looked at her. "But in the meantime…I'd be honoured."

Minerva's mouth curved in an answering smile as she pushed herself up on one elbow in order to draw her wand and spell-lock the door. It locked with a soft click that was nevertheless audible in the quiet room, and Minerva set her wand on the bedside table before resuming her position pressed against him.

She wasn't certain which of them moved next, or if they simply had the same idea at the same time, but somehow their lips brushed again, parted, and they kissed one another thoroughly. Again, there was no true passion—just warmth and safety, need and fulfilment, and nearly half a century's worth of love.

And when they undressed one another, there was no awkward adolescent fumbling; no mad rush for physical relief. She explored his body with her own, tracing fingertips over his scarred chest and arms and stomach, entwining her pale legs with his and no longer caring that he lacked part of one. 

Alastor touched her with reverence. His rough hands slid lightly over her skin, and he cupped her breasts and stroked her thighs with a profound gentleness she hadn't known he possessed.

They kissed yet again, and Minerva ran her hand down his stomach and loins, and then lower still. He gasped, causing her to smile against his lips.

"Apparently you're still able," she murmured. 

A breathless chuckle escaped him. "Oh, aye, this far. Thankfully. I just don't think I can--"

She silenced him with another kiss, climbed atop him, and raised an eyebrow. "There _is_ more than one acceptable play in Quidditch, Alastor."

He blushed, but then chuckled again and gave her a playful swat on the arse. "Well, then…score, woman! The Quaffle is in your hands."

It wasn't, precisely, but she forbore to point that out as she did what he suggested. Once she had, she sat motionless for a moment and then deliberately removed her spectacles and set them on the table. After that was done, she reached up and freed her hair from its dozen hairpins. They joined her spectacles on the table, and she shook her head slightly, letting the mass of black curls cascade down her back. Alastor was her friend. He deserved to look at a _somewhat_ attractive woman, at least, rather than the bespectacled, strict-looking professor she'd been for so many years.

His callused, gentle hands reached up and gripped her shoulders, pulling her down against him. "Thank you," he rasped against her cheek. 

Minerva smiled and began to rock her hips. "Thank me afterwards."

And later, when they were both flushed and panting, Alastor held her close against his chest and did just that. His good leg was draped over hers, and his stump pressed firmly against her hip.

"Thank you," he whispered yet again, running a hand through her hair. 

She lifted her head from his shoulder, intending to tell him she'd hex him into next Saturday if he kept thanking her, but then he grinned wickedly. 

"You're far better than Constantina," he said, sliding his hand down to squeeze her arse. "Perhaps I'll start writing, when I'm finished being an Auror. I think Hogwarts students would line up to buy books about Marvellous Min and her most superior cauldron, don't you?"

Minerva tried to glare but found the manoeuvre nigh impossible without her spectacles. So instead she laughed aloud, for the first time in a long time. It felt as though something heavy shattered and floated away inside her chest, and she welcomed it.

An unexpected and almost-forgotten sensation washed over her, and she basked in it like a cat in the sun as she lowered her cheek to Alastor's warm skin. 

Peace enfolded her, and it felt _good_.


End file.
